


Extra Creamy

by luminousbeings



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aaron Burr Matchmaker Extraordinaire, Asexual Aaron Burr, Cliches Gone Wrong, Crack, Fluff, Gratuitous Starbucks Lingo, Humor, Incredible Amounts of Awkwardness, M/M, Matchmaking, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not An Ounce of Emotional Maturity To Be Found, Shamelessly Self-Indulgent Schmoop, as per canon, coffee shop AU, everyone else is gay, oblivious boys in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 13:24:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11358399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminousbeings/pseuds/luminousbeings
Summary: Obviously it wasn’t bad enough that Aaron is stuck making bizarrely complicated coffee for irritable undergrads at 6:30 AM instead of working with his mom at the White House. No, now he gets to watch as Alexander repeatedly screws his own chances at so-called “true love” by staring starstruck and tongue-tied at John all day like a creep and thennot respondingwhen John actually starts up a conversation. A less disciplined man than Aaron would have been sent screaming out of the café from sheer frustration by now.





	Extra Creamy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [i_dreamthedream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_dreamthedream/gifts).



> My prompt was "Aaron is the barista at the café and he's tired of watching his friend and café #1 regular Alex and another client John dance around each other." It's like you _know_ me.

This godforsaken idiot comes in at 6:37 AM, half an hour after Aaron rolled out of bed and mere minutes after he unlocked the doors of the little five-table coffee shop and left it at the questionable mercies of the citizens of Greater Washington D.C. and Its Adjacent Counties. He supposes he should be grateful that this is the first time anyone’s come in so early – until the sun rises it’s usually been just him and Walter, who stays in his usual suit and corner and does not speak before 9 AM, as God intended. But it’s hard to work on gratitude while enduring auditory assault on his pre-caffeinated brain.

“This is a pretty sweet little place, huh? Never seen it before, but then again I just moved here two days ago, D.C.’s really great isn’t it only downside is I haven’t seen my celebrity crush yet, I shouldn’t tell you you’ll think it’s weird, okay it’s President Edwards, she is the modern world’s lord and savior I’m just saying, it’s not like I moved to D.C. for this but I’m not gonna lie I have these fantasies that she’s going to read one of my essays or blog posts and be like ‘that’s him, that’s the right-hand man I need to help me fix this country,’ and she’ll sweep me away in her tasteful, environmentally-friendly car and we’ll live happily ever after.”

There is a brief pause in the kid’s verbal deluge, presumably to give him time to inhale. Aaron stares at him in a combination of horror and awe.

The kid opens his mouth again and Aaron cuts him off at the pass. “Can I make you a drink?”

“That would be nice.”

Another pause.

“So?” says Aaron. It’s 6:43 AM and he already has a headache.

“Oh, right. Can I have a venti half-caf triple non-fat caramel macchiato with whipped cream and two sugars?”

Aaron looks at him in disbelief. “This isn’t Starbucks. I have no idea what half of that nonsense means.”

“Me neither!” says Alexander. “It sounds great though, huh?”

“Sure,” Aaron sighs. “Name?”

“Alexander Hamilton.”

“Address?”

“5513 Haverford Street, Washington D.C., 20030.”

“Social security number?”

Alex opens mouth in confusion, and Aaron gets a front-row seat as realization dawns a split-second later. “Ahhh, you’re saying I’m oversharing. I get it. Clever, clever.”

Aaron makes a noncommittal noise and takes the guy’s credit card. Student card, he notes vaguely, the kind you have to get when you have no credit score to your name – or no parents to cosign.

“I like this coffee shop,” Alex is saying now, “it’s got a nice ambiance, nice barista…”

He keeps going, and going, something about Starbucks and branding and capitalistic status symbols, and Aaron prays for death. The clock seems to be stuck at 6:47.

“From now on, you and me are going to be _besties_ ,” Hamilton declares.

“If I were not literally being paid to continue speaking with you right now, I can promise you this conversation would not be happening.”

“That’s all right,” Alex assures him. “I have low standards.”

“Clearly.”

“I’m also really poor. Any chance I can get that coffee for free?”

Aaron stares back at him blankly.

“Worth a shot,” says Alexander, shrugging.

“I can think of something else that would be worthwhile shooting,” says Aaron. Alex prudently makes himself scarce after he gets his drink (‘Allyksaandir’ scribbled passive-aggressively on the side) and Aaron thinks, like an idiot, that the whole ordeal has basically been dealt with.

\---

“Hello, friend!” Alex calls over the _ding_ of the door at promptly too-damn-early o’clock the next morning. “It’s such a gorgeous morning, huh? The sort of morning that makes you wanna give someone special a free coffee.”

“I’d like to,” says Aaron, “but I’ve been told once you feed a stray there’s no getting rid of it.”

“Oh, Aaron. Buddy. Pal. It’s far too late for that.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Aaron mutters.

Alex leans on the counter. “I’m not incredibly religious myself, but this is good, these differences are what make a great relationship.”

“Can’t you just murder me and get it over with already?” Aaron complains, and realizes his mistake a second after the words leave his mouth, when the man in the dark suit at the corner table immediately goes rigid. Aaron catches his eye and shakes his head the tiniest bit. The man scowls at him, and Aaron resists the urge to roll his eyes back. Message received, Walter. Jesus.

Alex follows his gaze to Walter. “Who’s that dude?”

“Regular,” says Aaron noncommittally.

Hamilton makes a thoughtful _hmm_ kind of noise, but seems to accept the relative truth of his answer. “Not to diss my fellow regulars but if anybody’s going to murder you it’s definitely that guy.”

“I appreciate your concern,” says Aaron. “Do you want to order a drink at some point, maybe?”

“Just saying, when your body shows up on 60 Minutes, I will let the police know it was the admittedly well-built but hella suspicious man carefully not making eye contact with the barista.” Alex pauses to study the menu on the wall. “Right so I’ll have a grande vanilla bean creme half-caf soy frappuccino with extra whip and caramel drizzle.”

\---

Walter is not going to kill Aaron, not because Walter would not _like_ to kill Aaron, but because if he killed the President’s son instead of protecting him from assassins and anthrax and inexplicably persistent coffee shop customers, he would be out of a job and possibly his head? Maybe not. Aaron’s early understanding of the punishment for treason was informed primarily by Alice in Wonderland.

Point is, being the son of the President of the United States is not all it’s cracked up to be. For instance: most presidents’ kids weren’t attending Princeton’s pre-law program while simultaneously working twenty-five hours a week at one of the campus’s no-name cafés, and yet. And yet.

“Hey, so remember that laptop malfunction I mentioned last week?” he had brought up innocently two months ago. “I brought it in to the Apple Store and they said the repairs would cost seven-hundred-fifty dollars. I might as well buy a new laptop.”

“You don’t need a new laptop,” Aaron’s dad says. “This one works fine.”

“I mean, it shuts down randomly and the screen is all inverted colors—”

“When I was young I didn’t even _have_ a computer,” says Aaron’s dad.

Aaron takes a long, deep breath through his nose, then said, very patiently, “These days to get through your undergrad, you need a computer.”

“Sally didn’t need a laptop. Our family computer was good enough for her.”

“Sally got her Bachelor’s in Dance _,_ Dad.”

“I agree, you need a laptop,” Aaron’s mom interjects finally, “especially for graduate school.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” says Aaron.

“Even more valuable will be the work experience you’ll get along the way.”

“Exactly _._ See, Dad, she—” Wait a minute. “Wait, what?”

“If you save responsibly it won’t take too long to earn enough for a laptop,” his mom continues. “I already have a job for you.”

Well, that doesn’t sound too bad. It might look good on his resume, in any case. “Something serving the government?”

“Well. It’s definitely... service-oriented...”

Which is how he came to the aforementioned five-table café at 6:30 AM. Aaron’s mom is the worst. We’ll get back to that.

\---

By the next day Walter has all the relevant background on Alexander Hamilton: immigrated from Nevis after dad left and mom died, came here to live with his only remaining relative, relative also died, recently emancipated from the foster care system and aiming for senator by the age of thirty. Aaron thinks, grudgingly, that his ambition is kind of impressive, if unrealistic and somewhat misguided. Walter thinks it’s suspicious.

“There’s a lot of death following this boy,” Walter had told him on the drive.

“He probably murdered all of them,” says Aaron. Walter shoots a glare back in the rearview.

“That isn’t funny.”

It’s too early to bother riling Walter up, so Aaron just says, “All right.”

“Don’t you ‘all right’ me.”

“Okay.”

“I swear, Secret Service is the most unappreciated profession there is.”

“Yep,” says Aaron.

\---

If nothing else, Aaron can say he’s benefited by discovering that what makes him really valuable as an employee is his customer service. It’s not a positive attitude, quite. It’s more about the quiet internal acknowledgement that he could not care less whether the majority of his customers die in a ditch immediately upon leaving his store, so long as they leave a positive review on Yelp.

He’d never realized how valuable his general disdain for the human race would be when making coffee, but here he is, taking orders and never getting particularly upset, no matter what crap the customers give him, including the guy who literally pulled out a stopwatch to time how long it took him to make his café au lait, or the lady who asked him how many calories were in each flavor note, or the one who ordered 46 lattes and was outraged when it took him nearly an hour, or the one who called him to her table to tell him that the cranberries in her muffin were tart. No, not _too_ tart. Just tart. She just wanted to let him know that cranberries are tart, apparently.

His boss actually pulls him aside and tells him that his civility with the customers is exceptional, to which Aaron asks if that means he’s getting a raise, which was, apparently, an absolutely hilarious joke.

\---

“Get me out of here,” Aaron says the moment his mom picks up the phone. “This job is demeaning and exhausting and pointless. I want to be contributing to politics, not remaking Cynthia’s upside down caramel macchiato because the first one was ‘too caramel-y.’”

“Aaron, I don’t want your accomplishments to come from riding on the benefits of being the President’s son.”

“Oh, come on, there are no benefits to being the President’s son. The White House’s air conditioning sucks.”

“All right,” says his mom.

“Don’t you ‘all right’ me.”

“Okay.”

“Look, this job isn’t a good fit for me. I should be involved with something more substantial. I should be helping you, relieving you of some of your many burdens, gleaning your priceless gems of wisdom.”

“Here’s a priceless gem of wisdom,” his mom says. “Are you currently projectile vomiting or bleeding out behind the counter?”

“No,” says Aaron.

“Then get off the phone and do your goddamn job.”

There’s a brief pause.

“Well, gotta go, honey,” she says. “Love you so much!”

\---

He knows he’s hit rock bottom when he realizes that the highlight of his day is when Alexander comes in to get an outrageously convoluted drink and do his schoolwork at the corner table, often handing a printed version of the results to Aaron to nitpick-slash-proofread. The damnable part of it all is that Hamilton’s writing is _good_ ; good to the point of distressing. He details his reasoning with nuance and wit and lyrical prose. True, his ideas are often extreme for Aaron’s tastes and the overall effect really shouldn’t work, but it does, because it manages to pair his zealotry with his undeniable and well-wielded brilliance, and a compelling repartee, and Alexander’s own hateful inexplicable charm that somehow translates mirror-true in his writing.

And compared to the lady who comes in twice a week to order things and then argue with Aaron about the ingredients (What’s almond milk made of? Almonds? _What_? No it _isn’t_!!), Alex’s omnipresence is an absolute godsend. At least he has someone to look long-sufferingly at while this lady is yelling, “Isn’t French vanilla just vanilla?? WHAT. MAKES. FRENCH. VANILLA. DIFFERENT. FROM. VANILLA! IS IT FROM FRANCE??”

He’s sunk to such depths that he’s actually appreciating Alexander Hamilton’s presence on a regular basis. If that’s not a sign that this job has done something truly and profoundly sick to him, he doesn’t know what is.

\---

Eleven in the morning. “Can I just get a medium Americano?” a harried-looking college student asks, and Walter speaks up inside the café walls for first time to say, “Their Americano’s not great. You’d do better at Dunkin.”

“Et tu, Walter?” Aaron demands.

\---

Two in the afternoon. “I’d like a decaf latte,” a girl says. She’s batting her eyelashes so hard it looks more like an Olympic sport more than a flirting technique. “Extra hot, with a _real_ creamy head.”

Alexander, eavesdropping from his table, bursts into hysterical laughter.

\---

As soon as she’s gotten her latte (decaf, extra hot, _real_ creamy) and left the store, Alexander is there, draped over the counter and still laughing.

“Your _face_!” he’s gasping. “Oh God, your face was absolutely—”

“Hey, uh… Sorry to interrupt?”

It’s another customer, all dark skin and freckles and long, wild hair and a sheepish kind of smile, and Alexander turns, still laughing, and goes utterly silent.

“Hi,” says the customer, giving Alexander a shy smile. Dimples, dimples. Alexander seems to be broken; Aaron is just enjoying the silence while it lasts.

“Hi,” Alex croaks.

The guy’s smile widens – shy and crooked and oddly endearing. It's a nice smile. “Hi. I think I’ve seen you around campus.”

“Can I,” Alex keeps saying, and stopping himself before it’s clear what he’s offering. To pay for his drink, maybe, or sit at his table, or possibly go to his knees right there in the coffee shop.

“I can help who’s next,” Aaron says loudly, if only to bring a quick, merciful end to… whatever it is Alexander is doing.

“Medium cappuccino?” says the guy

“Sure. Name?”

“John.”

They do the money-receipt-pen exchange, throughout which Alexander keeps standing there staring wide-eyed, not saying anything.

Apparently the guy doesn’t mind, which does not say great things about John’s self preservation skills, because he turns and says, “Not to be weird or anything, but I’ve always wanted to – uh, to talk to you? Okay, that did sound really weird, I’m sorry... That also sounded weird, sorry. I mean… What’s your name?”

“John,” says Alexander, his voice all bleary and vague, then catches himself. “Uh, Alex. Alexander. Hamilton. My name is Alexander Hamilton.”

“Alexander Hamilton,” John repeats. He smiles again, more dimples. Alex is a goner. “Cool. Once I’ve been all weird and clichéd I might as well keep going, right? So, uh… do you come here often?”

“Um,” says Alex intelligently.

“6:45 AM every day,” says Aaron from the milk steamer.

“Cool,” he says again. “Well then, hopefully I’ll see you around?”

“Um.”

“Bye, Alex,” John calls as he takes his cup from Aaron and turns to go. A moment later the door dings shut behind him.

“ _John_ ,” says Alexander dreamily, still staring at the closed door.

“Good lord,” says Aaron.

\---

Sure enough, John (that’s John _Laurens_ , to you, according to his credit card) becomes the café’s #2 customer, showing up pretty consistently at 7 AM with his enormous over-the-shoulder, four-foot-long sketchpads and one time, an easel and canvas.

The first day he’s there Alexander just stares at him over his laptop, ducking down whenever the other boy glanced over and pretending to work. It’s like watching a cringe-humor mockumentary of human mating rituals: observe how the native-District of Columbia John tries to catch the eye of the fledgling Alexander. Observe how Alex freaks the hell out every single time their eyes meet. In the absence of any normal human interaction patterns, the sensible John returns to his sketchpad. Oh, here we have a prime example of an attempted mating effort made by the Alexander, see as he stands up to loom silently right next to the native John’s table – you may notice that his body language significantly resembles the aggressive behavior from the same species. This is because the Alexander, while deeply intelligent, is also a counterproductive moron.

Honestly Alexander is acting more suspicious and out of place than Aaron’s actual Secret Service agent (Walter spends all his time with his headphones in catching up on Brooklyn Nine-Nine, as far as Aaron can tell). Aaron looks back over to where Alex is looming. Nope, still just staring quietly like a weirdo.

“You come here a lot,” is what Alex finally says a good four minutes later. Aaron resists the urge to slam him forehead-first into John’s little circular table.

“I do,” John agrees easily enough. “You know, coffee has always been deeply connected to the works of the great artists and thinkers.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, the Renaissance era is when coffee really started up as a popular drink in Western society, and the Renaissance literally means ‘awakening.’ Coincidence? I think not!”

Alexander giggles – honest-to-God _giggles_ and _blushes_ , and Aaron cringes in vicarious mortification, the realization dawning slowly that this is his life now. Obviously it wasn’t bad enough that Aaron is stuck making bizarrely complicated coffee for irritable undergrads at 6:30 AM instead of working with his mom at the White House. No, now he gets to watch as Alexander repeatedly screws his own chances at so-called “true love” by staring starstruck and tongue-tied at John all day like a creep and then _not responding_ when John actually starts up a conversation. A less disciplined man than Aaron would have been sent screaming out of the café from sheer frustration by now.

If possible, the situation gets even worse by the next week, when Aaron comes over to Alexander’s table with his order only to see him utterly absorbed in drawing a stick figure with long red hair and freckles.

“Maybe you’d do better wooing him on his philosophy major,” Aaron suggests

Alexander’s eyes go wide. “He’s double majoring in art and philosophy?” Aaron nods. “God. He’s perfect.”

“Okay,” says Aaron, and moves to make a tactful exit, stage left.

“Wait, he’s a Democrat, right? I can’t marry a Republican.”

“How should I know?”

“You knew his majors.” Hamilton’s expression suddenly goes wary and suspicious. “Wait, how did you know his majors? Are you trying to—”

“First of all, if I was flirting with him it would be your own fault because you still haven’t actually _spoken_ to the guy…”

Aaron couldn’t have gotten a more betrayed expression out of Alexander if he’d literally stabbed him in the gut.

“And second of all,” he continues, “no, I haven’t been _macking_ on your _man_. Christ. I know because he had a phone argument about it in the café. His father wants him to become a lawyer.”

Alexander seems to consider this.

“So you don’t know if he’s a Democrat,” he concludes.

Aaron sighs the sigh of the profoundly Done. “He’s majoring in _art_ and _philosophy_.”

“Fair enough,” says Alex. “He’s perfect, Burr. Do you understand that? He is a divine creature placed on this earth to cleanse the dreary dregs of humanity. He is the sun made mortal.”

“He’s looking at us,” Aaron notes.

Alexander goes an alarming shade of pale. “He’s _watching_?” he hisses. “Quick, let’s laugh like we’re preoccupied with engaging and clever conversation!” Alex throws back his head and laughs raucously. Aaron waits for him to finish.

When he’s done laughing he shoots a discreet glance over his shoulder. “Do you think he saw that? Do you think he’s intrigued? I’m an intriguing person. I’m full of wonder and mystery.”

“You’re definitely full of something.”

“What if I ‘accidentally’ dropped one of my essays on the floor next to him? I could put my phone number on it, so when he returns it he can—”

“Or you could, I don’t know. Go over there and say hi.”

“I could _go over there and say hi_?” Alexander shrieks. “ _What’s_ wrong _with you_?”

“I really worry about your definition of wrong,” Aaron comments. “Yesterday you were considering hiring a band of thieves to hold up the store and give you a chance to swoop in and heroically rescue him.” Aaron’s very legitimate concern falls on deaf ears, though, because Alexander seems to be hyperventilating. “Fine, don’t say hi to him, I don’t care.” And then, “Here’s your iced half-caff ristretto venti four-pump sugar-free cinnamon dolce soy skinny latte, by the way.”

Alex frowns. “I could’ve sworn I ordered a grande.”

\---

If early mornings at the coffee shop were arduous before John and Alex, they’re legitimately unbearable afterwards. Aaron spends ten percent of his time making coffee, five percent hiding in the bathroom, and the other eighty-five percent watching John and Alex make heart eyes as the back of each other’s heads, then panic and run away as soon as they actually make any kind of meaningful contact.

For example, whatever Alexander is trying to accomplish right now by following John into the orders line, his own latte already in hand.

John turns and gives him one of those dimpled smiles. Aaron can practically _see_ Alexander’s IQ dropping. “Hey. I was hoping I’d see you here again.”

“Do you believe in love at first sight?” Alex blurts out.

Laurens blinks, then says quietly, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

There is a long, long silence in which Aaron stares at Alex and John, and Alex and John stare at each other. And finally –

“Oh,” says Alexander. “Well. Cool!” He gives a high, nervous laugh and runs away to his seat in the corner.

“I honestly can’t tell if he’s interested or terrified,” says John, more to himself than anything.

“ _He’s interested_ ,” says Aaron through gritted teeth.

John looks at him strangely. “Not that I don’t take random barista’s opinions on their customers’ inner states as law, but, uh…”

“I’ll prove it!” Aaron says, because that’s how fed up he is, and he’s stormed around the counter and straight up to Alexander’s seat before he realizes that Alex’s textbooks may be there but the man of the hour himself is not.

“Where did he…?”

“Yeeaah,” says John behind him. “I don’t know if you’re trying to be considerate, or funny, or whatever, but it’s really not considerate or funny or whatever. I can take a hint when someone clearly doesn’t want to talk to me.”

That’s what he says, anyway, but from the anxious, painful twist of his voice you’d think he’d been given the slip by his spouse instead of a perfect stranger at a coffee shop. John gathers his stuff and walks out, the door jingling as it closes behind him.

A moment later Alex pops out from behind the refrigerator alongside the sandwich bar, his expression all relief. “Man that was close, he almost saw me!”

“You little bastard,” says Aaron.

\---

The good news is, John is back the next day.

The bad news is, John is back the next day. And aaaall of the sexual tension is back with him. The two of them accidentally brush hands at the cash register, sending them both into a flurry of _sorry_ s and _no it’s no problem_ s. Aaron idly considers poisoning the water supply.

It’s a few minutes after they’ve both taken their respective seats and generally calmed down that Aaron realizes Walter is signaling him over, a short, urgent hand movement tiny enough to be unnoticeable to outsiders that they’ve never actually had to use before. A sick coil of unease settles in Aaron’s gut as he walks over, a phantom ache between his shoulder blades as if in preparation for the bullet.

“When are those two guys going to make out?” says Walter quietly.

Aaron turns on his heel and walks away.

\---

“It’s nine o’clock!” Alexander is screaming – less of a rare occurrence than one might think. “Quick, turn on the TV!”

Aaron goes for the remote. “Sure… What do you want to see?”

“Our Queen is gracing us with a glimpse into her transcendental mind.” That’s right, his mom is making a public appearance today – preventative medicine in the health care system and reproductive rights. He’s heard the uncensored version of this speech, for which she’d probably get impeached in the best possible way. “It is our civic duty to gather each word and preserve it like the ineffable beacons of morality and justice that they are.”

“All right,” says Aaron, bemused.

Alex frowns. “What, you don’t want to watch the President’s speech?”

“I don’t _not_ want to watch it,” says Aaron. It’s just that he’s already heard all of them, whether in mutter-form when his mom was pacing around writing them, or in the lectures and dinner discussions he’d been getting his whole life. It’s not like his mom withholds her advice, like, _ever_ , so Aaron doesn’t feel the need to voluntarily request more of it via CNN.

He turns on the TV and sure enough, Aaron recognizes the introduction from a conversation they’d had on the way back from piano lessons.

“One of the underpinning philosophies of the United States of America is the recognition that taxation without representation is immoral….” President Edwards looks out at her crowd of approximately eleven thousand and adds, “The recognition that creating and implementing legislature which affects a certain group without the input of that group is a brand of dishonesty undoubtedly driven by agenda. But while we may have triumphed in the realm of tea, our system of legislation continues to perpetuate the very idea we fought against. We continue to allow the socioeconomic and political elite to make the choices of unrepresented American citizens. We continue to allow a male-dominated Congress and Senate to make the reproductive health decisions of women whose voices are not being heard.”

John and Alexander are watching the screens, utterly rapt.

“Always nice to have one of the richest women in the United States talking about the perils of letting the socioeconomic elite speak for everyone,” Aaron points out. So he’s still a little bitter about the “service-oriented” job she stuck him with, sue him.

“At least _she_ knows how to check her privilege about it,” Alexander snipes, which, okay, ouch.

“And all that money came from her own hard work,” John adds. “She grew up solidly middle class.”

“And anyway, if the only people allowed to advocate for the good of the underrepresented were the underrepresented nothing would ever get done. We need people across the social, political, and economic spectrum if we want to get better legislature through congress.”

“You know, you two have pretty similar politics and personal values,” Aaron points out, even as he feels Murphy’s Law creeping up behind him with a chainsaw. “Maybe you should get together sometime, have a conver—”

“ _Shhhh_ , we’re missing the speech!” Alexander hisses, flapping a hand at him. Yup, there’s good old Murphy, right on cue.

“I can be accused, here, of expecting too much from my country,” the President continues on the TV. “And to that I say… yes. Yes, I have enormous expectations of my country, because I love it and I know _exactly_ what it is capable of.” The crowd erupts into cheers that go on for nearly a full minute. “Love for my country obligates me to be personally invested in seeing it live up to the standard of itself. And so I do expect a lot of this country, as I expect a lot of my own children.”

Aaron snorts to himself as he sweeps, and when he looks up Alexander is looking right back at him, his expression distinctly unhappy.

“President Edwards is a _genius_ ,” he informs him, low and indignant.

“She is,” Aaron agrees, and goes back to cleaning the latte machine. Alexander is still frowning.

\---

“This is very good,” his mother remarks after she’s finished Alexander’s latest essay. Although it hadn’t been the purpose of showing her the paper, he’d been kind of hoping she would use her considerable intellect to find some fatal flaw in his number one customer’s writing, but unfortunately, “Don’t get me wrong, his skills need a lot more polishing before he can be let loose upon the world, but this boy is going to be something great one day.”

“So you’re getting a picture of what he’s like.”

His mother grins. “Oh, absolutely. He’s a menace. Actually, the kind of menace I wouldn’t mind having as a citizen advisor, actually.”

“Anyway, so the other guy’s this philosophy student who _clearly_ has a crush right back, and it’s driving me completely insane because—”

“Because you think they’d be really good together?”

“I don’t care about _that_. But Alexander is being unbelievably annoying – more annoying than usual, even – and I just want him to get the guy and be done with.”

“Ah.”

“You know when you’re trying to get a jar open and you can’t, and you’re well aware that you should just let someone else do it but suddenly the fact that it’s not working is a personal affront and you cannot focus on anything else until you’ve got it open?”

“Sure. Why do you think I became President? You think I was compelled by some lofty, ask-what-you-can-do-for-your-country sense of patriotism? I didn’t think Hillary Clinton could do as much good as I’m doing, if not more? I didn’t feel like getting the mold downstairs treated so I decided to move into the White House?”

“We both know that’s at least _partially_ —”

“No, son,” she continues, talking right over him. “I became President of the United States purely out of decades of sublimated spite.”

“That’s inspirational,” says Aaron.

“That’s my Harvard graduation guest speaker address.”

“Okay, I know I should just let this go, because it’s not my business.”

“That’s very true,” says his mom.

“I have my own stuff going on. I have school.”

“Also very true.”

Aaron pauses.

“I’m going to keep trying to make it happen,” he says at last, resigned. “God help me.”

“Atta boy.”

\---

Here’s the moral of the story: Disney ruins everything.

Here’s the story: Aaron has no romantic relationship knowledge to speak of, so he has to pull from what he has, which is Disney movies. Which, for the record, do not translate well to real life. Thus ruining everything. We’ll get there.

“Uh… Where did all the tables go?” Alexander asks when he comes in bright and early that day.

“What do you mean?” Aaron replies, oblivious, which is admittedly a bit stupid because there used to be five tables and now there are only two – the smallest two – and Walter has taken up residence at one of them.

Aaron has all the patience in the world today for Alexander’s long-winded frappuccino order, just smiling back and nodding and telling him it’ll be ready in a minute. The unexpected benefit of this is that it seems to completely psyche Alexander out, and instead of loitering around to bother Aaron at the counter he just stammers out a confused thank you and sits down at the table with two chairs (the only available table).

7:03 AM and right on cue, John Laurens shows up, enormous portfolio slung over his shoulder.

He looks around at the seating arrangements. “Um… It looks like you guys don’t have room today.”

“There‘s one more chair available, take a seat,” says Aaron.

John’s gaze flits nervously over to Alex and back. “Naah, I’m just gonna—”

Aaron lets the smile slide off his face. “Take. A. _Seat.”_

John sits.

“Here’s your drink,” says Aaron, smile firmly back in place. He plunks down Alexander’s order in front of them – one large frappuccino, two straws – and returns to the counter.

When he glances back, John is looking alarmed. “Uhh… Can I get my own frappuccino?”

“No,” says Aaron, pleasantly enough, and heads to the speaker system.

Aaron’s got a plan. More importantly, he’s got a playlist, which is basically “Bella Notte” from Lady and the Tramp looped seven times in a row, followed by one “It’s Not Unusual.”

The music starts up, and Aaron does a circuit around the café, pulling the shades and dimming the lights just enough that the setting is dark enough to be romantic but not too dark as to be reminiscent of a horror movie.

Although John and Alexander’s panicked expressions definitely belong more in a horror movie than a romance. Still, Disney knows best.

“H-here you can have the…” Alex gestures vaguely to the drink in front of them.

“No!” John yells, loud enough to jar everyone in the store, including Walter, who is watching attentively now. “I mean… it’s yours, you paid for it, you should…”

“But you also wanted one, so you can… You know, I don’t…”

Aaron wonders briefly if “Kiss The Girl” would’ve been the better choice. Or maybe he should’ve just taken Walter’s gun and told them to kiss already. No, that’s a felony, maybe not.

“We could…theoretically…” John starts. He clears his throat. “I’m not sick.”

Alexander looks confused. “Like HIV?”

“No! What? No, I mean we could theoretically share the drink because I don’t have a cold or anything… Do _you_ have HIV?”

“No! Of course not! I just thought – you said we could – and then said you weren’t _sick_ so I thought – never mind.”

Aaron pinches the bridge of his nose as the conversation rapidly deteriorates from there. Okay, so maybe this approach wasn’t… obvious enough. That doesn’t mean the war is over.

He is going to get these two idiots together even if he has to get fired to do it.

\---

“Aaron,” says Risa, the café manager, fingers interlaced on her desk and disapproving expression at full blast. “I’m sure you know why I asked to speak with you.”

“I have a pretty good idea,” Aaron mutters.

“According to this report you hid three out of five of the tables, intimidated a customer into staying in the store, refused to make more than one frappuccino for two people when there was plenty of supplies for both of them, and harassed the same two customers into sharing said frappuccino.”

Aaron stares at his feet.

“Then the next day you mopped the floor and failed to set up a sign, which could have caused serious injury that we would be legally responsible for…”

“Lots of romantic comedies have started with the two characters tripping into each other,” Aaron mumbles, still facing feet-ward.

“And the day after that you lured the same two customers into the supply closet and kept them _locked in there_ for three and a half hours!”

“That one was from fanfiction.net. I really thought that would—”

“We’re lucky they’re not filing a lawsuit! What could have _possibly_ possessed you to do this?” she demands.

Aaron fidgets, considers, then says against his better judgment, “Would you believe…true love?”

There is a long pointed pause in which Risa gives him time to marinate in the utter stupidity of his own words.

When he’s been broiled to a nice golden brown, she continues, “This is a warning, Aaron. Don’t let me hear about this kind of behavior again.”

He looks up. “You’re not firing me?”

“Of course not,” she says like this comment, out of everything, is the one thing she can’t believe he’s stupid enough to do. “I’m not going to fire the President’s son, come on. But seriously, don’t do this again because you’re really screwing up my business.”

\---

He calls her when he’s safely hidden in the employees’ bathroom perched on the closed toilet seat, Sudoku booklet in hand. “Okay, fine, there are benefits to being the President’s son,” he says as soon as she picks up.

“Um… _ye-ah_.”

“I’ve been acting completely unstable all week and pissing everyone off in the interests of two people who do not want my help, and that’s really unhealthy. I have to just… let whatever happens, happen. It’s their personal issue and at the end of the day I have to respect their boundaries and do my damn job.”

“I’m proud of you, sweetie. You’re juggling a lot right now and trying to focus on the important things. Just like your mama. Working hard, getting shit done.” She pauses. “How’s that for my autobiography title?”

“Ehh,” says Aaron.

“Fine. Keep working on it.”

“You know I think of little else,” says Aaron, filling in another two sixes in the right-most column.

“What I’m saying is, you should try to figure out what you most want to make sure gets done right, and you get those things done personally. The rest you can leave up to your partners. But always remember to heed the moral of the Lizzie McGuire Movie: No partner will ever be as good as a CGI-inserted clone of yourself.”

“That is not the moral of the Lizzie McGuire Movie,” says Aaron.

“The point is, delegation is for losers.”

“….An Autobiography.”

She pauses. “It does have a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Better than ‘Itchy in Israel.’”

“I was high on anti-lice conditioner fumes!” There’s a voice in the background and a pause. “Gotcha. All right I gotta go. I’m proud of you, baby.”

“Yeah.”

“I _am_. And don’t forget to feed Walter.”

“Yeah,” says Aaron, smiling. “Knock ‘em dead, Mom.”

“Oh, I’ll sure as hell try.”

\---

Okay, so maybe Aaron’s mom isn’t the _worst_. There are worse moms, like Mother Gothel. Or that mom from the movie Sybil, she was pretty sucky.

It’s important to remember these things when he emerges from the bathroom to find Alex and John doing something completely different for a change, and raving about his mother.

“—that dry sense of humor, goes right over your head if you’re not looking for it,” Alexander is saying enthusiastically. “Sometimes it’ll take me days to realize exactly what she really meant. It’s like this brilliant, professional-grade sarcasm.”

“She is eighty-five-percent sarcasm. Her debates—”

“ _Right_?”

“They weren’t even debates, they were _massacres_. I’d never been so turned on by political dialogue in my life.”

“She knows _everything_.”

“Did you notice how she casually referenced Cicero in her last interview?”

“She’s basically a unicorn. The mythical perfect person.”

Aaron is suddenly hit with the vivid memory of his mom trying to use the kitchen faucet hose to put out a grease fire on the oven the latest (and last) time she tried to make dinner, which, of course, just turned created a grease inferno instead, while he and Sally yelled a stream of unheeded NONONONONOs in the background. The singe marks are still on the kitchen ceiling of their old house.

A sharp “Dude, what is your problem?” pulls Aaron out of the memory and up into Hamilton’s angry expression.

“You’ve just been standing there smiling to yourself and it’s real condescending, man. If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”

John stands up too. “Yeah, you’ve been making weird faces every time she comes up in conversation.” He glances at Alexander. “But Alex says you’re cool, so…”

“I think you are. Thought you were,” Alex corrects, all indignant betrayal. This conversation is getting rapidly out of hand. “You think it would’ve been better if we’d re-elected the Angry Dorito of 2016? What exactly is your problem with her?”

Aaron looks back and forth between them. “I don’t… Look, I’m just…”

“We want to believe you’re not a racist douchebag with horrible opinions,” says John. “But you’ve got to tell us what’s going on in your head, man. Do you really hate President Edwards?”

“Of course I don’t _hate_ —”

“Yeah, there’s nothing we can do or even talk about unless you say it outright,” says John, cutting him off yet again. He looks weirdly flustered this time, which doesn’t make any sense until he adds, “You gotta be brave enough to put yourself out there, even if it’s really scary. Like I have to say out loud how I. How I feel about Alex, even if he turns me down and I can never look him in the eye again.”

This confession is followed by a stunned, soap-bubble-fragile silence.

“Are you serious,” says Aaron flatly. “Now? _Now_ ’s the time you pick to do this?”

“If I turn _you_ down?” says Alex, incredulous. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for months!”

“So have I! But you always disappeared or were busy writing, or talking to Aaron. You two seem…really close.”

“Well he _is_ my bestie,” Alex admits. Aaron rolls his eyes, resigned to being ignored. “But that’s subject to change depending on how he feels about our president.”

“Right?? She’s our country’s mortal lord and savior!”

Alexander’s face goes through several interesting expressions in quick successions and finally lands on the most desperately lovesick look Aaron has ever seen. “Will you marry me?” he blurts out.

John grins back. “I have a policy to not get engaged until after the first date.”

“That’s reasonable,” says Alex very seriously. “So….like…can we be on a date now? No, that’s creepy. Tonight?”

“We can be on a date now _and_ tonight.”

Alex _hmm_ s. “So what’s your policy on kissing?”

“Eh,” says John, and cups the back of Alexander’s head with both hands and pulls him into a kiss that Alex immediately melts into.

“So arguing with _me_ is what it took get you together,” says Aaron, even though no one is listening to him anymore, “That’s great.”

The door jingles and Aaron looks past his customers and sees a lot of black suits. A lot of very distinctive, Secret-Service-esque suits. “Oh no…”

John and Alex break away from each other and turn around. “What’s going,” Alexander starts.

“Aw, look at how nicely this is going! You look so cute in that apron.” President Edwards grins at her son, then nods towards the man in the corner. “Hi Walter. Thanks again for doing this.”

“Anything for Queen and Country,” says Walter. He stands and goes so far as to sketch a bow like some goofy oversized prince charming, but his lovesick expression has nothing on the shock and unadulterated _worship_ on John and Alex’s faces.

The President does a little curtsey back, then turns to Aaron. “I’ll take a skinny mocha, please.”

Aaron looks back at her, unimpressed. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, I’m very serious. No amount of tax reform will save my approval ratings if I go up a size.”

He rolls his eyes but starts making the coffee. “So…you haven’t come to rescue me.”

“No way in hell,” says President Edwards, apparently unaware of the two boys staring at her back. “You’re still on the clock. But, I did bring you a little something to show how proud I am of you.” It’s then that Aaron notices the thing in her arms – it’s a silver case of a new laptop.

Despite himself, Aaron feels… kind of touched. “Mom... You didn't have to... I really appreciate this.” He gives her the drink, which she accepts with a grin, and he’s smiling back at her and takes the case, registering how… uh, how weirdly light it is—

“MOM??” Alexander shrieks, breaking the longest stretch of silence he’s maintained in all the time Aaron has known him.

She turns, a smile already on her face. “Oh! Alexander, John, it’s nice to finally meet you two. Aaron’s told me so much.”

She shakes both their hands. Alex and John goggle back at her in a way that have been rude if they weren’t so obviously fighting the urge to genuflect before her glory.

“It’s,” says Aaron. “It’s a laptop case. There’s nothing in it.”

“You really are cute together,” she says into the dumbfounded silence. “I can see why Aaron got so obsessed.”

“It’s just a laptop case,” Aaron repeats numbly.

“It’s not just a laptop case,” his mom says, calm as you please. “It’s got special flexible, water resistant fabric. What, did you think I would buy you that laptop? I would never repay your hard work by dismissing your self-attained goals and inhibiting your personal development.”

“Please,” says Aaron. “ _Please_. Just once, inhibit my personal development, okay?”

“’ _Mom’_?” Alex echoes again, his eyes still wide and his hand still limp in front of him.

“You were so proud of my hard work that you decided you’d come deliver your sucker punch in person?”

“Yep. That and the opportunity to gain practical skills, the pride of earning your own money, and the knowledge that you are contributing to the economic system of your society.”

Aaron snorts. “You’re full of crap.”

Alex and Laurens’s jaws drop.

President Edwards just grins over the rim of her cup. “Must be genetic.”

“His _mom_ ,” says Alexander again, faintly.

She turns to him. “By the way, Aaron has showed me some of your writing. I was very impressed.”

“It’s happening,” says Alexander, his voice getting higher. “Oh, God, it’s happening.”

“And I was just wondering…”

“Wait, no, don’t say it yet, I’m wearing a Rooster Teeth t-shirt, I can’t be wearing a Rooster Teeth t-shirt when this happens – but I can’t be shirtless either – _dammit_ – “

“Would you consider an internship with my junior staff?” she finishes.

“I would kill and die for you,” say Alex, fierce and instantaneous.

“Uh, okay,” says President Edwards. “So I’ll take that as a yes?”

Alexander nods, apparently deprived of his ability to speak.

“Great,” says Esther. “I’m glad you and Aaron already get along – he’ll be joining the same internship once he’s earned enough money for his laptop, so you’ll be seeing a lot of each other.” She turns and gives Aaron quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the coffee, honey. See you tonight.”

She and her entourage are out the door and back in the bulletproof car with such efficiency that it might have been choreographed. Aaron wouldn’t put it past his mother, honestly.

“That… didn’t actually happen, right?” says Hamilton, his voice weak. “Pinch me, John.” John obligingly pinches him on the butt, and Alex goes so bright red and smiley it just reminds Aaron all over again that Alexander has earned a boyfriend and a top internship with the White House administration and the ability to get a recommendation letter from the President of the United States in the span of a few hours. And it’s all thanks to Aaron.

He smacks his new laptop case on top of the counter and his face on top of the laptop case and decides to stay there forever.

“I’m glad you’re not a racist douchebag,” says John helpfully.

“Me too!” says Alex. “And hey, even better, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other! Do you need help paying for that laptop?”

Aaron closes his eyes lets his soul-deep groan be muffled by the flexible, water resistant fabric while John pats him sympathetically over the counter.


End file.
